Time of Death

by James Craig

  The thought made him laugh. Bad form was what he did best.

  He glanced at his watch: eleven fifty. Yawning, he started picking his nose.

  When she finally appeared, he was just flicking a ball of snot at a passing mongrel.

  ‘How nice to see you,’ he muttered.

  Finally, after all this time, he had caught a break. The woman was on her own, singing along quietly to a tune playing on her iPod. Swaying to the music. Probably drunk.

  Perfect.

  He started the engine and watched as she stepped between a couple of parked cars, twenty yards or so further up the two-lane road. Peering out from behind a small Ford, she saw that there was no traffic in either direction. Stepping out, she got halfway across before realising that the pavement on the far side had been closed off for repairs. Turning away from him, she continued walking down the road itself, heading towards the traffic-lights at the next junction.

  Putting the car into gear, he carefully manoeuvred it out into the roadway. She was thirty yards in front of him now, as he moved his foot on to the accelerator. By the time she realised what was happening, he was almost upon her. Half-turning, there was barely time for the incredulity to register on her face. There was a satisfying thud and she was flipped up over the car bonnet, and sent bouncing down the road.

  Did she recognise him as she flew past? It was unlikely but he hoped so. He wanted her to know why – why this was happening to her; why she had got herself killed. That should be the last thought crawling through her brain before she expired.

  Looking back, he saw the street was still empty – no witnesses, no reaction, plenty of time for him to go back and make sure the job was done properly. But the satisfied grin had not reached his face when his thoughts were interrupted by the scream of a horn. He was sailing through the junction before he realised it, through a red light, almost sideswiping a black cab as it roared past him.

  ‘Mother of God!’ he cursed, bringing the Peugeot to a halt.

  The taxi stopped in a squeal of rubber off to his left. He could see the driver get out and head towards him with fury in his eyes. The cabbie hadn’t seen the girl yet, but there was no question of going back now. No matter: a look in the rear-view mirror showed her still lying prostrate on the tarmac. He’d hit her at speed. She wasn’t getting up again. He was confident that the job was done. Stomping on the accelerator for a second time, he left the taxi driver’s curses flailing on the wind, and headed off into the night.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Rosanna closed the front door and stood in the entry hall of Reith Mansions, listening for the sound of Ian Dale’s BMW pulling away from the kerb. Peeking through the letter box, to make sure that her unwelcome suitor had finally gone, she let out a drunken squeak of triumph. ‘Good riddance, you odious little man,’ she cackled. ‘Let’s see how you talk your way out of that one when you get home.’ Taking her mobile from her jacket pocket, she pulled up Erica Dale’s number on the screen. For a few moments, her finger hovered over the call button, before she thought better of it. ‘You’ve had enough excitement for one day, girl,’ she mumbled to herself. ‘Time for some sleep.’

  Recalling vaguely that the building’s lift was out of order, Rosanna slowly staggered up two flights of stairs. Swaying slightly in front of the door to her flat, she began rummaging through her bag in search of her keys. When they were not immediately forthcoming, she tipped the bag upside down, emptying the contents on to the carpet in the corridor. What a pile of crap, she thought. I really must sort it out. Falling to her knees, she began sifting through the debris.

  ‘Hurrah!’ Grabbing the keys, she slowly struggled back to her feet. Reaching for the lock, it took her another moment to realise that she was not alone. She made a face as her pickled brain tried to process this information.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, not looking up. ‘It’s late and I’ve got work in the morning. Plus, I don’t feel well.’ She tried to insert the key in the lock and missed. When she tried again, it fell back to the floor. ‘Shit!’ She bent down and felt woozy.

  Then she felt a firm hand on her collar, pulling her backwards. ‘Hey!’ Rosanna tried to stand upright, but her legs buckled. Her stomach surged and she thought she was going to be sick again. She half-fell away from the door, tottering back towards the stairs. One of her shoes came off and she felt the ground disappear from beneath her. The same hand reached out towards her, but she couldn’t grab hold of it as she started bouncing backwards down the stairs.

  TWENTY-THREE

  It was hot and Carlyle was bothered. Standing on the cobbles of Covent Garden piazza, inside the flaccid police tape, he wiped some sweat from his brow and looked at the tourists staring back at him. Didn’t they have anything better to do than gawp at some poor bloke who had keeled over while playing the bongos for their entertainment?Over the last hour, people had come and gone, but nevertheless the crowd had been growing steadily. Now it was easily more than a hundred strong, which was probably a much bigger audience than poor Dennis Felix had ever enjoyed while he was alive. Carlyle was almost tempted to pass the dead man’s hat round and ask for contributions towards the funeral expenses. If nothing else, that would have cleared away the crowd.

  Standing next to him, sweating profusely, was Sergeant Dave Prentice. On a rare and unwelcome foray from his usual position behind the front desk at the station, he was reciting the basic facts that had so far been gleaned about the unfortunate musician: ‘Mid-thirties apparently. From Estonia apparently. Lives somewhere in East London.’

  ‘Apparently,’ Carlyle said, without thinking.

  Prentice shot him a dirty look. ‘He’s been playing at this pitch three or four times a week for over a year.’

  ‘Well done,’ said Carlyle, trying to retrieve the situation. ‘That was quick.’

  ‘Speak to her.’ Prentice pointed at a woman standing nearby. ‘She knows him.’

  Carlyle caught the woman’s eye and beckoned her over. Young and gaunt, she was about 5 feet 4 inches, with dark rings round her eyes that matched her black hair. You need a good feed and some prolonged exposure to sunlight, he thought. She was dressed in baggy green trousers and a cropped pink vest, allowing her to display a selection of rings protruding from her belly button. With too much jewellery and not enough make-up, she looked primed to run away and join the circus. Maybe she already had.

  ‘I’m Inspector Carlyle and I work with Sergeant Prentice here.’

  The girl stepped directly in front of Carlyle, but said nothing. Despite the heat, she was shivering and he could see that she had been crying.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  The girl eyed him suspiciously. Then she glanced at the body lying on a trolley, hidden under a blanket, waiting to be taken away by the crew that had edged their ambulance to one corner of the square.

  ‘It’s not a trick question,’ Carlyle snapped, his meagre reserves of empathy already exhausted.

  ‘Kylie.’

  How unlucky, thought Carlyle, to be named after a midget Australian pop star. He focused his gaze on a spot an inch above her head. ‘Okay, Kylie, what can you tell me about Mr Felix?’

  ‘He was from Tallinn, in Estonia.’ She scratched her neck. ‘That’s like, Russia, I think. Somewhere round there anyway.’

  ‘What else?’

  Kylie thought it over at length. ‘I’ve known him for about six months,’ she said finally.

  ‘How?’

  ‘How what?’ She gave him a look like an inquisitive puppy.

  Carlyle took a deep breath and counted to ten. Calm yourself, he thought. Don’t let little things wind you up. You have to try and keep things under control.

  ‘How did you know him?’ Were you fucking him? Did he try and dump you? Could you have cared enough to try and kill him? How did he die?

  ‘I work over there.’ She pointed to a fast-food trailer that had been parked by the entrance to the Jubilee Hall gym.

  Carlyl
e realised that he hadn’t been to the gym for almost a week. He felt sluggish. I need a workout, he thought.

  ‘Dennis would often stop by for a smoothie and a chat. And I would listen to him play. He was good. Did an amazing version of “Wonderwall”.’

  Shame I missed that one, Carlyle thought. ‘So what happened this morning?’

  ‘I dunno,’ she shrugged. ‘I saw him arrive and set up. He started drumming and then I had to get a customer a cappuccino. When I looked again, Felix was kind of slumped over to one side. No one seemed to be paying him any attention.’ Her eyes lost focus. ‘Maybe they thought it was part of his act.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  She ignored his question. ‘I knew something was wrong, so I went over to see if I could help. I gave him a shake and then checked for a pulse . . . but there was nothing.’ She paused and a tear appeared at the corner of her right eye.

  Give it a rest, Carlyle thought uncharitably. All you did was sell the poor sod the odd juice.

  ‘Did he do drugs?’

  She looked at him blankly in a way that Carlyle read as: Yes, of course he did, you idiot! ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She shook her head. ‘I never saw Felix touch anything illegal.’

  I’d need some serious drugs if I had to play the bloody bongo drums all day, Carlyle mused. ‘Okay, was he ill?’

  ‘No, no, he was very healthy.’

  ‘What else did he do?’ Carlyle asked. ‘Apart from play for the tourists here?’

  ‘He loved his music. He often worked with kids doing drumming workshops.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘No, in Hackney. He also had his own band. They’re called Toompea. They play alternative folk rock.’

  ‘Uhuh.’ Carlyle was switching off; this dead guy was getting less interesting by the second.

  Kylie looked at him expectantly, obviously waiting for another question, but his mind had gone blank.

  ‘John?’ He was saved by Susan Phillips, who had appeared from somewhere.

  He held up a hand to signal to the pathologist that he would come over in a minute. ‘Thank you for that,’ he said to the girl. ‘Give Sergeant Prentice here your details, and we will be in touch.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ Kylie asked.

  ‘That’s what we need to find out. If you can think of anything else that might be relevant, let us know straight away.’ Turning away from the girl before she could start crying again, he stepped over to the pathologist and smiled. ‘Nice to see you, Susan.’

  ‘You, too, John. You’ve got an interesting one here.’

  Based ten minutes up the road, at Holborn police station, Susan Phillips had been a staff pathologist with the Met for more than fifteen years. Slim and blonde, with a healthy glow and a cheery smile, she brought a smidgen of much-needed glamour to The Job. More to the point, she was quick, no-nonsense and dependable – just what Carlyle liked in a colleague. They had worked together many times before and he was always pleased to see her at a crime scene.

  ‘What can you tell me?’ Carlyle asked.

  ‘Not a lot,’ Phillips grinned, pushing a pair of oversized sunglasses back up her nose.

  ‘Foul play?’ he asked casually.

  ‘No signs of it that I can see, first off.’

  ‘Heart attack, then? The girl says he just kind of keeled over.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she shrugged. ‘He’s still young, but it can happen. I’m sorry, but I can’t speculate at this stage. It’s not immediately apparent what killed him. We’re going to take him away now. I’ll get him on to the slab and let you know what I find out.’

  ‘Okay,’ Carlyle nodded. ‘Thanks for coming.’

  ‘No problem,’ Phillips said. ‘Let’s speak later.’

  The body was carefully loaded into the ambulance by a couple of paramedics. Carlyle watched as it slowly edged its way into the traffic on Bow Street before heading away from the piazza.

  ‘What shall we do with the bongos?’ Prentice asked.

  Carlyle looked at the pair of forlorn-looking drums standing on the cobbles alongside Felix’s other bits and pieces. ‘Take them back to the station with the rest of the guy’s stuff. They’re evidence.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Prentice, happy to be getting back to his desk.

  As Prentice trudged off, Carlyle glanced back across the police tape. With the show over, the crowd had largely dispersed, heading off in search of other diversions. It was hard work being a tourist, Carlyle thought.

  Finally, there were only a handful of people still standing by the tape. One man caught Carlyle’s eye and grinned. ‘Well, fuck me!’ the inspector mumbled under his breath. Instinctively, he felt for his handcuffs, cursing when he remembered that – not for the first time – he had left them at the station or at home or God knows where. He looked around for some support, moral or otherwise. In the distance, he could see Prentice already on the far side of the piazza, heading back to the station with a bongo drum under each arm. Everyone else had left.

  Taking a deep breath, Carlyle stepped towards the tape.

  ‘Inspector.’ Michael Hagger doffed an imaginary cap and let the grin spread even wider across his face.

  Just short of six feet, Hagger was taller and heavier than Carlyle, not to mention at least fifteen years younger. They both knew that the policeman could not take him down, one on one.

  More to the point, there was no sign of the child.

  ‘Michael, nice to see you.’

  ‘I hear you’ve been looking for me.’

  ‘Quite a few people have.’

  ‘Well, here I am.’

  ‘Yeah, but people are also looking for the boy. Where’s Jake?’

  Hagger did a little half-step dance on the cobbles. ‘The kid’s okay.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  Hagger sniggered. ‘You know that if you lay a finger on me now, well . . . that might change.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Carlyle, holding his hands up in supplication. ‘I do.’

  Hagger put on an expression of mock hurt. ‘It’s a shame that a father isn’t allowed to have some quality time with his son these days.’

  Carlyle bit his tongue.

  ‘It’s not like his mother – that useless bitch – is doing much of a job anyway.’

  At least that’s something we can agree on, Carlyle reflected.

  Hagger gave him a sly look. ‘I’m guessing that when you do get Jake back, Social Services will take over, anyway.’

  When. Carlyle liked the sound of that. On the other hand, Hagger talked shit most of the time; gibberish the rest. ‘Where is he, Michael?’

  Hagger raised a fist, but only for emphasis. ‘He’s safe. And he’s well. I only need him for a few more days, and then you’ll get him back. In the meantime, tell your people to back off.’

  My people? Carlyle wondered what he meant. Maybe Inspector Cutler was outperforming any expectations. ‘Okay.’

  ‘If Jake gets hurt,’ Hagger continued, sounding more agitated, ‘it will be your fault.’

  ‘No one wants Jake to get hurt,’ Carlyle said, as soothingly as he could manage.

  ‘Well, tell your chum Silver to behave himself, then.’

  Silver? Carlyle frowned. ‘What’s he got to do with all this?’

  Thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets, Hagger turned on his heel and began walking briskly away. ‘Just bloody tell him,’ he shouted over his shoulder.

  Carlyle watched him go, while replaying in his head what had just been said. As Hagger disappeared round a corner, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his private and untraceable (he hoped) mobile, and called Dominic Silver’s number. Almost immediately, it went to voicemail. Gripping the handset tighter in frustration, he spat out a message: Dominic, it’s me. Call me back asap. I am waiting for your call, so I will definitely pick up.

  For a few moments, he stared at his phone, willing it to ring, while wondering whether he had time to pop u
p to Il Buffone for lunch. But the phone didn’t ring and he decided, regretfully, that he didn’t have time for a proper lunch. Plan B was a cheese sandwich and an orange juice, which he bought from a cheerful girl working in Kylie’s trailer to take back to the station.

  Five minutes later, aware of the rumbling in his stomach, Carlyle stepped out of the lift and headed towards his desk. As he approached, he wasn’t best pleased to find someone sitting in his chair.

  ‘John Carlyle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The tall Asian-looking bloke lifted his spotless Nike trainers off Carlyle’s desk and planted them on the floor. ‘I’m Inspector Nick Chan.’ He nodded at another man hovering nearby. ‘That is Sergeant Greg Brown.’

  Both men wore a smug look that said We know something you don’t.

  Chan and Brown? After a few seconds’ thought, Carlyle came to the conclusion that he didn’t know anything about this duo. That made it doubly certain that now was a good time for caution.

  ‘What can I do for you gentlemen?’ Carlyle asked. He couldn’t wait any longer for some food, so he flopped into a nearby chair and began unwrapping his sandwich.

  Chan took that as his cue to stand up. ‘Let’s go into one of the conference rooms.’

  ‘Fine.’ Carlyle took a large bite out of his sandwich and chewed it vigorously, getting back to his feet and following his two colleagues towards the row of empty rooms situated at the rear of that floor.

  Conference room number seven was filled by a long rectangular table, surrounded by a dozen chairs. Carlyle quickly took a seat at the far end of the table, by the window. Someone had left a copy of the Mirror on the table. The newspaper was folded in half and Carlyle could only see part of the front-page headline: television presenter. . . Resisting the temptation to open it out, he polished off the last of his sandwich and took a long swig of juice.

  Behind him, Brown entered the room, followed by Chan, who closed the door and then removed his jacket, dropping it over the back of a chair. Both policemen remained standing. ‘Do you know Sandra Groves?’ Chan asked.